


Dangerous Ground

by BurntWhisky1



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, During Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-Discovery, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-07-22 23:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurntWhisky1/pseuds/BurntWhisky1
Summary: On dangerous ground:To be in a position that poses danger to oneself and that is likely to upset or offend others.A situation in which a person may do or say something that will have a bad result.But sometimes the things you want the most are the ones that can really hurt you.





	1. The beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To set the scene, the first chapter fits closely around canon events.  
> After that the fic will have its own story arc, becoming a layer unseen in canon, but roughly compliant with the overall Varga character story.

It doesn't take long for the desert to kill an injured creature and Nacho is no exception to the rule. His life expectancy and hopes of rescue decrease by the minute, the world shrinking around him until there is only blue sky and the desiccated desert shrubs waving in the corner of his vision.

He's too far gone to register the sound of a vehicle and there are no voices, so it's hard to tell whether or not it's a hallucination when two impossibly tall figures look down at him, identical frowns on their faces.

It's honestly the first time he's ever been happy to see Marco and Leonel Salamanca.

He doesn't remember a whole lot after that; it's all confusing, muddled images as he slips in and out of consciousness. All he really knows for sure is how much it hurts.

Eventually he becomes aware of the sharp stink of disinfectant and the hard surface beneath him. He feels really sick, really cold and he opens his eyes because he's afraid he might have died.

The first thing he sees is Marco Salamanca.

Marco looms over him; his hooded brown eyes are watching Nacho, his face impassive and unmoving as stone as the Vet gives instructions on aftercare. The instructions seem simple enough; Nacho manages to nod his understanding but is too shocked to speak. Through it all Marco just sits there, flexing the big bones of his long fingers and letting precious Salamanca blood slip down the tube into Nacho's arm, while Caldera basically tells Nacho he's a piece of shit.

The Vet leaves then, letting the door slam shut behind him. Nacho supposes he should do something, but right now he feels too weak to even lift a finger.

Marco is still staring at him; Nacho swears in that entire time the man hasn't blinked even once. He should feel awkward, but for some reason it's comforting; one solid thing in a world which is much more uncertain than it was 24 hours earlier.

The impasse is broken when Leonel makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Marco throws a quick glance in his direction and some kind of weird, silent communication passes between them. Then the transfusion is withdrawn rapidly and the brothers stand over him. They look a little puzzled, as though they're not quite sure what to do with him. Nacho is relieved when they evidently decide to take him along, wherever it is they're going.

Fortunately they're both big men and they make small work of lifting Nacho upright and half carrying him to the vehicle. Once he's deposited in the rear seat, they don't waste any time before they start quizzing him for details, Leonel firing questions over his shoulder as he drives and Marco chipping in here and there. Nacho trots out the fictitious version of events given to him by Fring and then just runs out of steam. He's so tired his head is nodding and the dark curtains of his eyelashes get lower and lower. At some point Marco swivels around in the passenger seat and resumes staring at him. Nacho doesn't mind; it's marginally more interesting than looking at the shiny backs of the twins' shaved heads.

He falls asleep soon after and doesn't wake up until the following morning, when he finds himself lying in bed in one of the Salamanca's safe houses. It's very hot in the room despite an ancient fan cranking around in the corner. All that money; you'd have thought they'd at least have a decent AC unit.

The tall glass of tepid water beside the bed makes Nacho realize he has a raging thirst. He gets up, slow, swallows it down in one go, and thinks he'd better piss while he's awake. He shuffles off to the bathroom, noticing belatedly that he's only wearing his undershorts. In the grand scheme of things this doesn't seem too important, although he does wonder who stripped him, if Marco's long fingers were the ones that hooked over the waistband of his jeans. The thought is unexpected and strangely disquieting, even more so when he exits the bathroom to find Marco standing in the entrance to the bedroom.

The man seems even taller in the close confines of the house. He's wearing his suit trousers, a vest that looks incredibly white against his skin and his usual blank expression.

Nacho clears his throat. He wants to say thank you for rescuing him, for actually giving up some blood on his behalf, but it would probably come across as weak. No-one in their right mind shows they are weak in front of a Salamanca. He's done enough of that for five lifetimes in the last few hours anyway. In the end he settles for a stiff nod and receives one in return.

Marco doesn't seem inclined to speak, or in fact to move, so Nacho eases his way past the man's impressive torso. He's got some nice lean muscle himself, nothing to be ashamed of, but next to the bigger man he feels small. This momentary awkwardness makes him lose concentration and he stumbles a little, his bare shoulder brushing the warmth of Marco's vest.

Immediately a large hand envelops his elbow, steadying him. Nacho looks up instinctively; finding himself eye level with Marco's cheekbone. Shit, but that man knows how to stare, his dark eyes intent and filled with some unfathomable turmoil.

They are in such close proximity that Nacho can feel the heat coming off the other man's skin and the tickle of his breath. It brings a shiver to Nacho's flesh, turning his nipples hard and his knees strangely weak. For some reason he wonders what it would be like if Marco leaned in a little more, pressing him against the door post. If he'd struggle or not.

Embarrassment and confusion arrive in a hot flood, painting their story across Nacho's cheeks. He eases himself free and heads for the bed. A bewildered part of him is disappointed when Marco doesn't follow.

...

By the next day the brothers have received confirmation that the Espanosas have Salamanca drugs and then there is no stopping them. Nacho tries to take the sensible approach but they ignore him, moving in for the kill like a well-oiled machine.

Numbers of Espanosas and a need to keep his cover intact mean Nacho has to make a move in support, although quite honestly all he feels capable of is lying on the floor. It's all a mess and he ends up killing someone and ripping his own stitches so badly he almost passes out.

He finds himself behind an oil drum in the yard; it seems the Espanosas have pinned down the Salamanca brothers and if that's the case then it will end bloody for Nacho, but he'll go out fighting. He's just lining up his gun to take a shot when someone opens up behind him. The shock of it drives him to the floor, absolutely fucking terrified that this is it, the moment when another round will rip into him.

Then he sees those crazy gangster boots, the skulls inches from his face and he knows, just knows, that it's Marco, standing over him like some avenging warlord, or possibly like some psychotic assassin, which of course he is.

When the gunfire finally stops, Nacho pokes at the ringing in his ears and forces himself back onto his feet. Marco appears to be relatively intact and although he's taken a hit high in the left shoulder it doesn't seem to be bothering him unduly. They exchange another stiff nod of acknowledgement but this time Marco's expression thaws by an infinestimal amount. For some reason Nacho gets a strange feeling that the other man is pleased with him, maybe even a tiny bit proud, but there's no time to puzzle over it as Leonel strides into view and the moment is lost.  
...


	2. Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a good day, so you can have chapter 2 nice and early.

Time passes; Nacho begins to heal, makes a truce of sorts with his father, finds himself virtually running the local Salamanca business and waits anxiously for Fring's next instructions. He's stressed and stretched thin and his head is whirling with the need to double-think everything, so that neither the Salamancas or Fring feel he's being inadequate. On top of that are his own secret plans for his eventual escape. He doesn't have time to think about much else, and when Marco does pop into his thoughts he manages to put them aside. It's only natural he should think occasionally about someone who was instrumental in saving his life, right? 

... 

Then one morning everything changes. When Nacho pulls up outside El Michoacano, all set for a day of receiving money, there's an expensive looking pickup in the parking lot. It's a little early for customers so he's naturally wary when he enters the restaurant.

Crazy '8' is at the table they usually use for collecting; lately Nacho has been training him up to count the money, while he takes a table further back to oversee the process. Crazy '8' looks extremely relieved to see Nacho, not too surprising as Marco and Leonel Salamanca are standing behind him like two well-dressed statues.

Nacho's stomach gives a little flip; perhaps he's been found out and they're here to kill him? The Salamancas rule by fear, so it would suit their purposes to murder Nacho while a subordinate is watching. He can't afford to show his nerves though, so he squares his shoulders and walks up to them with an even stride, keeps his voice steady.

"Marco. Leonel." He stops, squares his stance and folds his arms. No-one can tell his heart is hammering.

"Don Hector?" asks Marco, never one to be particularly volubal.

"Don Hector, he's at the nursing home now." Nacho is sure they know this already. "He is receiving the best care."

Silence.

"We do the count today. Crazy '8' here, he's learning this part of the business."

"You trust him?" Leonel this time.

"He knows better than to cross a Salamanca. He knows there will be consequences." If only Nacho could say the same about himself. The brothers fix twin glares on the nervous man; Crazy '8' looks as though he's about to shit himself. "It's cool," Nacho adds hurriedly. The last thing he needs is to train another dealer to do the collection because the Salamancas decide they don't like Molina and croak him to prove a point.

"We'll be staying a few days. Making sure the Salamanca interests are in order." Leonel sounds put out, which he probably is, as they've not been south of the border long enough for the slaughter of the Espanosas to be old news.

"Everything is in order," Nacho confirms. "Business is excellent." He's a little affronted; just because he's playing one major cartel gang off against another, it doesn't mean he's not good at his job. Profits are up, and Hector is doing as well as can be expected, which is a lot better than Nacho would like.

To his dismay it becomes apparent that part of checking on the Salamanca's interests involves watching the collection. With perfect choreography the twins pull chairs up to Nacho's customary double table, one on either side of his own. It sits between them, empty, giving the impression of a missing tooth.

Nacho grits his teeth and pulls out the vacant seat; he has to slip into the narrow gap, reaching between his legs to drag the chair with him. As the sound of the scraping legs dies away, he realizes there's not a lot of room between the broad sets of shoulders on either side of him and Marco's thigh is far too close to his own. Thankfully the cook chooses this moment to bring out coffee and Nacho can distract himself by taking out his cellphone and that day's paper. He can feel a headache setting in behind his eyes and hopes no-one chooses this week to be short on sales.

The day goes by without incident at least as far as the dealers are concerned, but the dealers are the least of Nacho's worries. He's far more agitated by the way Marco's leg leans gradually closer, until he can feel hard thigh muscle against his own, heat seeping through his jeans. Unbidden, his pulse speeds up, his skin over-sensitive under his clothing. He tries to slow down his breathing but there are butterflies crashing around in his stomach and every minuscule shift of Marco's leg against his own makes it worse. He's actually getting a hard-on and he's no idea why.

Admittedly, it's been a while since he fucked someone. Since Tuco went extra crazy he's been too anxious for sex to even cross his mind. It's not as if it hadn't been available if he'd wanted it, but he was just too stressed and then too injured and well, it's been a while. Then there's the fact that it's Marco, who is not only a crazy son of a bitch but also, well, male. This is new territory for Nacho who has previously been all about chicks, although yes, occasionally he's passed an appreciative eye over a tight butt or a long slope of muscle. But that's just 'cause he wants them himself, right?

Anyway, whatever this is, it's getting him hot and bothered and by the time Crazy '8' hands over the last roll of money and beats a hasty retreat, Nacho's balls are aching and he feels like he's going to puke. He gets up awkwardly, gets the bag up on the table in front of his crotch as fast as possible and hopes the Salamancas fuck off before anyone notices the way his pants are bulging.

It seems things are going his way when Leonel stands up and moves away from the table, but then Marco's on his feet too and he steps right in until he's flush against Nacho's side, leans over and fastens his hand over Nacho's where it lies on the zip fastener of the bag.

Nacho looks up at him, panicked, and realizes that was a huge mistake because Marco's face is right next to his own, and who knew the man's skin was so smooth, so perfect over those strong bones? Nacho's pulse goes into overdrive and all he can focus on is Marco's lips, big and sensuous and soft-looking as they part slightly. Fuck, Nacho wants to kiss them, really fucking wants to lean in and...his breath goes out, cock twitching with excitement; then Marco's hand tightens over his own and his mouth firms as he pulls away, taking the bag with him. Nacho is left standing by the table, shaking all over, bereft.

He stares at the retreating Salamancas, can't disguise his expression when Marco looks back from the doorway, something dark and predatory in his gaze.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make me happy :)


	3. Attraction

That night Nacho dreams of big hands roaming over his body, teasing and stroking until his skin is on fire. He wakes up hot and sweaty, his cock weeping and eager for his hand. It only takes a few firm strokes before he's coming, back arching, shuddering. That's all it was, he tells himself, just too long without relief. Things will be okay now.

Things are not okay. They stop having any resemblance to okay the moment the Salamancas walk into the diner where Nacho's having breakfast. It's a strange thing, but that breakfast is the first meal Nacho has actually felt like eating for a very long time and he's actually savoring the spicy, greasy taste, running his tongue over his lips to catch the salt, when some primordial instinct tells him someone is watching him. He looks up immediately; Marco has just stepped inside the diner and his intense gaze is fixed on Nacho's face, in particular on his lips. He's obviously come to a halt abruptly as Leonel runs into the back of him and curses, throwing foul looks at both Nacho and his brother. They exchange a few words, then Leonel heads for the rest rooms while Marco makes a beeline for the booth where Nacho is seated. 

Shit. Nacho's food turns to sawdust in his mouth. He swallows, nearly choking in the process, and suddenly he's so turned on it's ridiculous.

"You've got to be shitting me," he mutters.

He feels like some horny school kid and he doesn't know what the hell is the matter with him. He's not sure if Marco understands what he said or not, his English isn't too hot, but he doesn't seem perturbed, slipping into the seat opposite Nacho and stretching out his long legs so one knee sits between Nacho's thighs. It's all Nacho can do not to slide down in his seat and grind against it.

He wishes Marco would at least speak, this whole nodding business is all very well but really isn't quite enough, not when he's spent the night virtually having wet dreams about the man and then had a spine wrenching orgasm as a result, because it was Marco he was thinking about as his hand slid up and down his cock, Marco and Marco's mouth. 

He really needs to regain control of the situation.

Fortunately he's accustomed to hiding his feelings, so by the time Leonel joins them he's put on his calm face and manages to engage in the Salamanca version of small talk, which really means small in quantity.

Food arrives and for the next tortuous twenty minutes or so Nacho sits and watches the strangely erotic display of Marco sliding his meal between his lips, working his jaw and swallowing, the muscular line of his throat flexing beneath Nacho's mesmerized gaze. Then the brothers exchange one of those weird, silent communication things and Leonel gets up and leaves, just like that. 

"You come with me," says Marco, scowling. 

"Okay?" Too high a pitch, but nothing he can do about it now. Maybe they mean to kill him after all and Marco has drawn the short straw?

It seems this is not on the immediate agenda; they are to visit Hector and Nacho is driving. How a day that started with such a glorious orgasm can turn to rat shit so quickly is beyond Nacho's comprehension, but he complies, mainly because it would be suicidal not to, and sets out for the nursing home. At least Marco is quiet and keeps to his own side of the vehicle so Nacho is able to drive without losing concentration and veering off the road. 

.... 

The visit with Hector goes as expected, in that Marco stands and stares and Hector sits and dribbles. Nacho checks on the well-being of Don Hector with the greying care assistant and makes sure to nod seriously for Marco's benefit, although of course he doesn't really give a shit if Hector, the vicious bastard, is comfortable or not. Hopefully he will croak soon and Nacho will be free of one reoccurring nightmare.

At some point Marco tires of staring at his uncle and they leave. By this time Nacho feels wrung out emotionally; he's so tense he feels dizzy and the still healing wound in his gut sets up a steady, fiery throb. He is not going to survive this; he's already walking a tight rope between the Salamancas and Fring and leading a double or possibly triple life planning his exit. How is it even possible he's now got the hots for one of his most likely executioners?

His fingers shake so much the car keys tumble out of his grasp and land in the thick dust with a dull thump. He stares at them blankly until Marco goes down on his haunches and gathers them up. The man crouches there for a long moment, looking up at Nacho, dust filtering between his fingers. His expression isn't blank any more; now he looks confused and a little sad and that just messes with Nacho's head in the most unexpected way. Then Marco is back on his feet; he hands the keys back to Nacho and gives him what passes for a kindly pat and squeeze on the shoulder that will most likely leave a bruise. Nacho, no longer sure which way is up, gets into the car without any grace at all and starts it up. He wants to bang his head repeatedly on the steering wheel until he wakes up from the nightmare that is his life, but that probably wouldn't do much for his carefully crafted image of professional gangster.

... 

Marco directs him out into the desert where the car twists and turns on dirt roads until they reach a tumbledown wooden shack. It looks abandoned and when Nacho pushes open the door he finds he's standing in a stifling, hollow shell. Wooden walls, dirt floor, nothing else but the door and some broken shutters on the empty window, oh, and a shovel that Marco has lifted down from the rafters.

Now Nacho keeps his gun tucked in the back of his pants, his knife in his boot and he knows how to use his fists and feet and teeth if necessary. He was after all the hard man presence behind Hector and Tuco, although Tuco did love to do his own dirty work. For all that, he doesn't think much of his chances against one of the Salamanca's hit men, but he's not giving up without a fight. Although, truth is, if it was just him, he's not sure he gives a fuck anymore; he's so damn tired of it all. But there's his father to consider, if it's not already too late and that was Leonel's mystery morning destination.

Marco eyes him, then calmly takes off his jacket, folds it in half and places it on the floor.

"You dig," he says, jerking a thumb at the shovel.

Nacho takes it in his hand, thinks 'what the hell' and plants it in the dirt right in front of Marco. He folds his arms across his chest and puts on his best 'fuck you' face. He's not digging his own grave. No way.

Marco's eyebrows go up, then he just shrugs, rolls up his sleeves and sets to with gusto. Soon there's a fair-sized hole; it's rectangular but it doesn't look long enough for Nacho and he wonders if this is his punishment for being insubordinate - eternity squashed into an undersized grave? Or possibly it's not for him at all, in which case he now looks like a giant asshole. It's obviously a good time to attempt to off Marco, while he's digging and his guard is down, but something stays Nacho's hand. 

The other man has just climbed out of the trench when there's the sound of an approaching engine. It's Leonel and if murder is on the Salamanca's minds, Nacho has missed his opportunity and now stands less chance of surviving than an icicle in hell.

To his relief Leonel summons him outside to help carry crates of weapons from the pick-up. These are stashed in the hole and covered with tarpaulin, then Leonel glares at them both and departs without feeling any need for conversation.

As Nacho now feels like a complete dick, he hurriedly grabs the shovel and throws dirt back into the hole. Marco waits in the doorway, catching whatever breeze is available and seems fascinated by the flex of muscle in Nacho's forearms and the way his shirt sticks to his skin.

Moving the dirt causes the pain in Nacho's gut to climb rapidly up the scale towards vicious, because he's nowhere near healed enough to be using a shovel, but he keeps a straight face and perseveres until the job is done and the left-over dirt is scraped flat and innocent across the floor. The shovel goes back up in the rafters, where it can be found again by those with nefarious aims but is simply a forgotten tool if anyone else comes across it. Funnily enough, it's the stretch up to replace the shovel that nearly un-mans him and it's a good thing he's facing away from Marco, because his face twists involuntarily and he can't help the way his breath catches.

He takes a few seconds to gather himself before going outside, pretending to brush down his clothes, but it seems his acting is below par, for as he steps into the sunlight Marco holds up a hand to stop him and simply lifts up Nacho's shirt. The wound's entrance is still red and angry looking, although it doesn't look anywhere near as bad as it feels, particularly when Marco places his thumb over it and presses down. 

Nacho feels the blood drain out of his face. He shuts his eyes, breathes through his nose and tries not to pass out. The thumb lifts immediately, ghosts gently back over the injury, as though in some mute apology, and then fingers reach around him, caressing the exit wound with the softest of touches. It is exquisite pain and pleasure rolled into one and Nacho's skin twitches, his nipples contracting and his eyes flying open.

Marco is very close and the hand that is not stroking Nacho's skin fastens on his right hip, pushing him backwards gently until he is against the sun-heated wall of the shack. His brown eyes hold Nacho's gaze, the pupils wide as he leans in and drops his head until their foreheads are touching. His breath is hot and fast and his lips brush over Nacho's cheekbone before descending slowly onto his mouth. 

Nacho tastes him, moves his mouth against the other man's and feels something set fire in his stomach that causes his lips to open and his hips to push up against the body hard against his own. Marco's hands move then, one to his jaw, the other to his butt cheek and he pulls Nacho closer. There is no mistaking the fact that Marco is hard and Nacho finds that he has a hand twisted in the man's half-open shirt while the other reaches down between them, fumbling until their flies are open and he can slide his fingers around the soft-skinned, swollen cock that pushes against his hand. He pulls at it gently, freeing it completely until it rubs against his own with the slow movement of their hips.

Marco's tongue moves deep inside his mouth, consuming him, fucking into his throat. Light-headed, dizzy, Nacho moves faster against him, holding their cocks tight together, leaking and slippery now as Marco's hand wriggles inside his pants, his long fingers digging into Nacho's ass cheek, holding them tight against each other so their cocks grind together with exquisite friction.

A button pops off Marco's shirt, arcing away into the scrub, and Nacho unfists the material and takes advantage of the wider access to drag his fingers down over muscle and bone, pausing to roll a nipple between his fingertips. Marco gives a little gasp and pulls back enough to get some air; his eyes are wild and his gaze rakes hungrily over Nacho's face before he drops his head and attacks the juncture of his neck and shoulder, nipping and licking at the same time as his fingers slip in between Nacho's ass cheeks, questing, stroking. Nacho shudders, nerve endings on fire as sensations tear through him, then Marco's blunt fingertip finds its destination, pushes inside a little, and Nacho's balls clench, his thumb and fingers pulling frantically at their joined cocks. Marco groans into his neck, the sound muffled and the vibration against his skin enough to push him over the edge. He comes, hard, spurting as he arches up against solid muscle and feels Marco jerking and pulsing in his hand. Instinct alone keeps his fingers stroking as they shudder against each other. 

He's not sure whose legs give out first, but they end up on their knees, chests sticky with sweat, gasping for breath. After a moment, Marco takes Nacho's hand and pulls it up to his mouth, suckles slowly on a finger and then kisses Nacho, long and slow, the taste and smell of them both deep in their mouths. He holds Nacho for a long time after that, hand cupping one side of his head and the warmth of his cheek against the other while Nacho wraps his fingers around the blades of Marco's hips and leans his jaw against the taller man's collarbone. 

Later, when they are back in the car, Nacho thinks back to that moment, breathing in the sweet, salt sweat of Marco's skin and it fills a tiny part of the aching emptiness inside of him.

Later still, it occurs to him that Marco might just be as screwed up and lost as he is himself. 

... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it so far, please let me know! x


	4. Unexpected

It's late Thursday night, nearly Friday morning, and it's hot in the bar. Nacho orders an ice-cold beer and settles on a bar stool as close as possible to the welcome stream of air-conditioning. He feels dried out and mixed up and his lips are over-sensitive when they touch the rim of the chilled glass.

He sips slowly, taking his time with the beer, pausing between each mouthful to run his finger down the condensation on the outside of the glass and draw patterns in the wet circles on the wooden counter. His mind churns around his newest problem, Marco Salamanca; with the most optimistic outlook in the world what happened between them earlier can't be seen to be anything but a potential disaster, that may well cost one or both of them their lives.

Just as this thought crosses his mind someone settles on the stool next to him. Nacho registers the movement of their hand as they summon the bartender, but is too caught up in his own thoughts to take any notice.

"Jesus, kid. It can't be that bad."

Mike Ehrmantraut. Nacho jumps a little and looks up to meet Mike's amused eyes. Something of his misery and confusion must show on his face because the amusement disappears, to be replaced by something closer to sympathy.

"Bad day at work, huh?"

Nacho shrugs, too confused to know if it's a bad day or not, certain only that in those moments when he rested against Marco's collarbone his own fragmented, self-consuming and violent life had turned upside down, scattering parts of Nacho to the desert winds.

Mike orders a beer for them both, takes a few swallows and wipes his mouth.

"You okay?" he offers. They both know he's asking if Nacho wants to talk about it.

No. Definitely not. Mike hates the Salamanca brothers with a passion since Hector used them to threaten his granddaughter.

"I'm okay," says Nacho, suddenly exhausted and having to fight the urge to just blurt out everything. It occurs to him that there's no-one in the world that he can talk to about this, except perhaps Marco himself and the odds on him taking part in an actual conversation are very small.

Mike, keeper of a few secrets himself, lets it go. They drink their beers, exchange a bit of general conversation and then Nacho takes his leave.

He is so fucking tired but he knows he won't sleep, so he heads for a cantina-style bar not far from his dad's house where he used to spend a lot of time when he was younger. It's packed to the rafters and hot and noisy, but the music is decent and the tequila is good and as he pushes through the crowd he sees the Salamancas are there and have claimed the best table in the place. He doesn't even attempt to lie to himself by pretending to be surprised; if they were going to be drinking anywhere, it would be here.

He inclines his head in greeting, slides his eyes away from the smoulder of Marco's gaze and heads to the bar. He knows Marco has followed him when the people on either side of him edge away, leaving a clear space around them both, like that around a shark in a shoal. Marco and Leonel have that effect on people; they instinctively know to keep their distance, except for Nacho of course, because he's an idiot.

The bartender approaches immediately, without any need to summon him. He looks a bit flustered and asks if the waitresses are looking after the tables alright.

"It's cool," says Nacho. "Three double tequilas...make it the good bottle, okay."

When they turn up he slugs his straight back and holds it out for a refill before heading to the table. Leonel accepts his glass with a nod and looks from his brother to Nacho and back again, his one eyebrow rising a little. Marco meets his stare with his most blank expression, which seems to amuse Leonel, who's almost in danger of smirking before he gets it quickly under wraps and turns his attention back to the pretty little thing who's currently making eyes at him. Nacho knows for a fact that she's divorced and not currently with anyone likely to make a fuss, which is a good thing because it means no-one is likely to die tonight, at least not over that.

By the time he's downed the next double shot Nacho has to accept the fact that it's not helping. He is so tired his head hurts and his shoulder is protesting about the whole digging thing in a way that doesn't bode well for the future. It's not that it's a terrible hurt, but it is one that will come back every time he does something to make that bullet grind against the bone, the sort that gets you down when you are old, not that it's too likely Nacho will get old. As for his gut, that doesn't bear thinking about.

He's sitting there in a daze, feeling sorry for himself, when he realizes that Leonel is leaving and Marco is going with him. There's no point in staying so he catches the eye of the scantily clad girl with the tray and points to the bucks tucked under his glass. She gives him the smile equivalent of a thumbs up and heads for the table as he leaves.

He pushes out through the door, thinking that if it wasn't so late he'd go past his father's place, maybe call in if a light was still on, anything rather than go home to his own soulless house. He nearly runs into Marco, who is doing his statue impression just outside the door, but pulls up in time and wonders how many unsuspecting drunkards have bounced off the man in the interval when Nacho was tucking money under his glass. There is no sign of Leonel.

Unexpectedly, Marco speaks first.

"You need to rest."

The words are like ice on Nacho's spine. The voice is different but the words identical to those uttered by the insanely clever, utterly cruel Gustavo Fring.

He runs a hand over the stubble on his head, chews on his lip a little and wonders how obvious it is that he's exhausted if someone with a Salamanca's lack of empathy has noticed. It's true enough though, whoever said it; he does need to rest. 

"Yeah."

Marco must take this as some sort of permission, because he snags the keys out of Nacho's jacket pocket, light-fingered sonofabitch that he is, and strides off towards the car, completely ignoring the incredulous look on Nacho's face. There is really no choice but to follow him.

The passenger door is agape and Marco already has the engine running, so Nacho slides into his own passenger seat with a bit of a frown. He isn't consulted on the destination and can't be bothered to ask, content to just sit and watch the beam of the powerful headlamps running over the road ahead of them until Marco pulls up in the driveway of a small house a little way out of town. It must be one of the cleaner safe houses in the Salamanca's unofficial property portfolio.

Nacho climbs out of the car, yawning so widely his jaw cracks and follows Marco into the house. His heart shakes off its apathy and starts to hammer; he's really not sure what to expect.

Marco doesn't waste any time, dumping his jacket and boots and stepping right into Nacho's personal space, where he tilts Nacho's jaw up and kisses him. It's very slow and very deep and Nacho gives as good as he gets.

It's a complete surprise when Marco goes down on his knees and pops open the button on Nacho's jeans, slides down the zipper and leans in to nuzzle the line of dark hair on his lower belly. If he hadn't been hard already, that soft touch of lips and warm breath would have done the trick.

He's disappointed when Marco pulls away, until he feels fingers hook over the top of his jeans. He looks down then, breath catching as Marco pulls steadily until Nacho is naked from knee to waist, his cock bobbing between them. Marco eyes it almost reverently and licks his lips. He pauses, spit shining on his full bottom lip, then slowly swipes his tongue over the head. Breath puffs, cool against damp skin as he leans in for another taste, tongue curling artfully along the slit. Nacho jerks, hisses at the sensation, air catching in his throat as Marco opens his mouth and sucks him in, inch by slow inch.

Shocks rip along Nacho's nerves, every pore of his being focused on the suck and swirl of mouth and lips, the grip of strong fingers on his thighs, the slide of a tongue curling around his balls. Nacho begins to thrust, hears the other man grunt and gag a little although he does not back off, swallowing until Nacho can feel the clench of Marco's throat around his tip. It makes it impossible to slow down the increasing ferocity of his thrusting and his fingers grip the shaven crown of Marco's head as he fucks into those shiny, wet lips.

Through it all, Marco watches him and its fucking erotic, the way he stares. Nacho's had blow jobs before, many times, but never anything like this. The fire at the base of his spine builds and builds; someone is making hot little gasping noises and he thinks it might be himself. Then Marco pulls back for a second, just long enough to wet his own finger, before sucking Nacho's dick back deep into the heat of his mouth. The finger touches his most intimate place, pushes inside and curves upwards, deeper than before, until it's pressing on something that sends a jolt of pure pleasure to his cock. Nacho keens, bucks helplessly twice more and comes so hard into Marco's mouth that his knees buckle. He grabs onto Marco's shoulders for support, fingertips white, and Marco holds him up by his hips as he sucks him dry, licking and nipping his cock until the overload of sensation makes Nacho cry out and jerk uncontrollably.

Finally he stops, half carries Nacho to the bed and strips off the rest of his clothes. Nacho raises himself up, wanting to reciprocate, but Marco pushes him flat, pulls out his rigid cock and slides his thumb and fingers through the stream of precum before taking hold of it and beginning to pull with long, slow strokes that make the muscles in his forearm ripple under his skin.

Nacho watches, mesmerized, his own cock stirring in its nest of dark curls as he lifts himself up onto one elbow for a better view. Marco's dark eyes narrow as he gets close to the edge, his gaze hungry, his strokes faster, harder, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He groans when he comes, clenched teeth a flash of white as long spurts spread across Nacho's belly and crotch. Nacho whimpers, spurting again weakly in response. Shit. The man is irresistible.

He slumps back, drifting in a pleasant stupor for a few seconds before realization sets in that Marco is wiping him clean and is getting into bed with him, buck-naked. He lies on one elbow over Nacho and slowly traces along his cheekbone and over his eyebrow with a forefinger, touches the edge of his thick lashes with a featherlight touch. Now it isn't the first time someone thinks Nacho's eyes are pretty, but no-one has ever made his chest give a weird little clench the way it does when Marco looks at him like that.

After a while, when Nacho's blinks become longer and closer together, Marco reaches down and places a warm palm over the hurt in Nacho's gut as though he knows how much it aches. He presses his lips briefly against the scar on his shoulder and then sort of tucks Nacho half under him, moving his palm softly, softly over his hurting abdomen until Nacho simply falls asleep.

It's the first time in years he's actually felt safe.

... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts?  
> Kudos feed the muse :)


	5. One step forwards, one step back

Nacho comes up out of sleep nice and easy; he's warm and comfortable and relaxed. He doesn't even remember where he is until he opens his eyes and the first thing he sees are the intricately linked pictures that are the tattoos on Marco's chest. The man is lying on his side, facing him, with one heavy, muscled arm draped casually over the ripple of Nacho's ribs and for a while Nacho just lies there and enjoys it, that illusory feeling of security that will disappear the second he actually thinks about what it is that he's doing here.

For now though, he's content to soak up the comfort that comes from feeling another human being next to his skin, one that's not trying to hurt him, at least not yet. He lets his gaze wander along Marco's long jaw line and across the jut and dip of his collar bones. He reaches out and lets his fingers trace the tattoos, sliding down over hard ridges of bone and onto the firm abs of the warm stomach. The man is all muscle yet his skin is soft and smooth, marred here and there by scarring. It's fascinating, this hard male form, and Nacho is glad his own body is in fine, lean shape and is a nice dark golden color against Marco's deeper skin-tone. 

His fingers reach lower, twisting their way into short, crisp hair and finding warm flesh. He wants to see it, really see it this time, and he slides out from under Marco's arm and eases himself down the bed until his head is next to the other man's crotch. It's convenient that Marco chooses this moment to flip onto his back, legs sprawling open and loose. His cock is already half hard in response to Nacho's caresses and it's long and heavy-looking, a strong vein dark on the underside. Nacho gets hard just looking at it. He wonders how he never realized before how beautiful a cock can be?

Tentatively, he leans forward, lifts it in his hand and places his lips on the end, drags his tongue around. It's a little salty, a little sweet and smells so nice that Nacho wants to bury his nose deep in the other man's curls. 

Above him, Marco stirs, tenses, awake now with his eyes all hooded and sleepy looking as he stares in silence. Very slowly, deliberately, Nacho licks his lips, feels the heavy cock in his hand twitch and then slowly sucks it into his mouth. It's a new experience, not unpleasant, that heavy weight on his tongue, the sense of power when he runs his tongue over the vein and hears Marco hiss. He looks up, shy, through his lashes and feels the pressure against the back of his mouth increase as Marco goes fully hard and begins to rock his hips, his mouth opening a little as his breaths go ragged. 

It's so fucking hot, the way Nacho can make him whine when he suckles hard and pulls off, teasing. A hunger grows in him and he rolls in between Marco's legs, moving his head in time with the man's increasingly strong thrusts, his hand wrapped around the lower half of his dick to keep some control over how much is in his mouth. Nacho is close to coming himself, rubbing his cock along Marco's leg as he swirls his tongue, taking him in deeper and deeper. Suddenly Marco's hands are on his head, pushing him down as he ruts up into Nacho's throat. Nacho chokes, gags, swallows the end, feels Marco's buttocks clench and his balls go tight, swallows again convulsively; then the man gives a few hard, fast thrusts and explodes into Nacho's mouth and throat. Nacho tries to take it all, some spilling out of the corners of his mouth, reflexive tears in his eyes as his own body clenches, shudders, shooting his load over Marco's legs.

"Fuck!" says Marco with feeling. Seems he can speak some English then after all.

Nacho lies there for a few minutes, catching his breath, sprawled between Marco's legs and with a cheek resting on his hip bone. He feels sticky and a bit gross, but strangely reluctant to move. He knows once he does that this moment, this peace, will be over.

He tries to figure out what to do next; what's the procedure here? What are you supposed to do after you give a man a blowjob, on a morning, in his bed, after you've spent the night curled up next to him. He guesses he probably needs to leave now but he's going to freshen up first though.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." It comes out hoarse; just thinking about why makes his groin ache. 

Marco nods and lies there watching while Nacho walks around naked, collecting up his clothes, which are basically wherever Marco threw them the night before.  
...

Nacho is showered, dressed and putting on his boots when he hears the front door slam. Marco passes him, still wet from the shower, towelling himself dry as he walks. Suddenly inexplicably awkward, Nacho keeps his eyes elsewhere until his peripheral vision picks up that Marco has his pants on and is heading for the kitchen. He follows, wondering where the hell the keys to his ride have gone.

It's Leonel, with a bag of take-out that's giving off an aroma that makes Nacho's belly rumble. The man quirks an eyebrow at his brother when he sees Nacho, but Marco isn't fazed by such simple tactics and simply starts rummaging around in the bag of food.

"I'm gonna go now," says Nacho. "I got shit to do." He doesn't, but they're not to know that.

"Eat." Leonel slides a burrito wrap across the table in his direction. This is unprecedented on two counts; Salamanca's do not provide subordinates with breakfast, and Leonel usually ignores him unless business is involved.

"Eat," affirms Marco. "You have Salamanca blood in your veins now."

He's completely dead-pan as he says it but sneaks a look at his brother. Nacho bites into his wrap, thinking morosely that the twinkle in their eyes is probably their equivalent of a good belly laugh.

He's halfway through his wrap when Leonel speaks again.

"We're done here." He points a finger at Nacho. "You handle the business at this end for now and Tio, he gets only the best care."

Nacho swallows, nods.

"Don Hector," he agrees. "They don't treat him good, it's gonna be bad for them."

"Hector is family," says Leonel with finality.

Marco looks up then, his eyes dark and sober. "Hector, he raised us. He taught us, family is everything."

Nacho swallows, wishes he hadn't eaten the wrap 'cause now he feels like puking. Don Hector isn't just Tio to Marco, he actually fucking raised him. And Marco and his brother, sooner or later they're going to find out Nacho tried to off their uncle, because it's not a secret and when Nacho is no further use to him then Fring will let it slip to the Salamancas what really happened that night.

"Sure," he nods. He's so fucking screwed.

A few minutes later they're gone and Nacho is left in the empty kitchen. He sits for a couple of seconds, digging the thumb and forefinger of one hand into his throbbing temple and wondering how quickly stress can kill you. Then he gets to his feet, throws out the trash and clears away any trace of their presence, just in case.

There's no sign of his car keys; they're probably still in Marco's pocket. Fortunately Nacho's a career criminal and his car is old, so it doesn't take him too long to hot wire it and clear off. It's ironic but it's a beautiful morning, one of those days when the light is perfect and everything looks clear cut and clean. Somehow it makes everything seem even worse.  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments hawksbeard!


	6. Slipping

It's been a few days since the twins went south and Nacho is edgy; it feels like his skin is too tight for his frame, his ribs too constricting to allow him to take a full breath. He goes over and over what happened, riding a roller coaster of emotions that exhaust him.

There's no doubt that his life, and that of his father, is even more at risk than before, if that's even possible.

Then there's the indisputable fact that he's never felt as turned on as he does with Marco; even thinking about it makes him hot and sends blood rushing to his dick. He guesses he'll have to take his time working that one out. Maybe it'll be different next time he sees the man?

This line of thought inevitably leads to him being aware that the absence of the Salamanca is a constant discomfort and that's ridiculous, because the whole situation is fucking ridiculous and basically means Nacho has a death wish.

The thoughts churn around and around, around and around, until Nacho feels physically sick and as strung out as a rock star in rehab. It's actually a relief when Crazy '8' comes up short on LJ's count and Nacho is obliged to give the sorry sonofabitch a beating.

It was never his thing, gratuitous violence, and to date he's managed to avoid handing too much of it out, but this is a situation that requires him to reinforce his hard man image. He takes LJ aside and explains to him with his fists why it's a bad idea to be short on payments. For a moment there he actually hates the little shit, for making him do this on top of everything else. He pours out his anger and fear and it's not until he feels the crunch of bone beneath his knuckles and the dealer curls into a ball that Nacho's vision clears. Not apologizing is the hardest thing, but he forces a scowl and doesn't help LJ to his feet like he wants to, not even when the man is crying and slipping and sliding on his own blood.

Fortunately it's the last pay-off of the day. Crazy '8' wastes no time packing up, and keeps sending panicky glances in Nacho's direction as though he's afraid he might lay into him next. As soon as he's gone, Nacho mops up and goes into the dirty little staff restroom to wash the blood off his hands. He barely recognizes the face in the cracked mirror; dead-looking eyes set in skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, spattered with blood that isn't his own. He swallows, washes his face and hands and holds it together until he's outside. He has the car door open ready to get in when it hits him; his stomach flips and next thing he's bent double, heaving and choking his lunch up onto the parking lot.

When he's done he sinks into the driver's seat and finds a dried up, old stick of gum in the side pocket. It's while he's unwrapping it that he notices the red van parked on the dirt on the opposite side of the blacktop. A parked van is just that, a parked van, but some instinct tells him he's seen it around before and if there's one thing Nacho has learned, it's to never ignore his instincts. 

... 

He doesn't sleep much that night, and he's up and in the shower good and early, but no matter how much he scrubs he just doesn't feel clean. He wonders if this is how it started for Tuco, if he took a beating too far one day and a bit further the next and the next, each day crossing another line until there were no more lines to cross?

He spends the day dealing with business and then finds himself at a loose end with nothing to do but worry about things he's powerless to change. Finally he caves to the urge that's been nagging at him all day and calls in at his father's upholstery shop. It's just before closing time and on some level he's aware this is probably deliberate on his behalf. He needs to touch base at a time when Varga senior is a little distracted, not so much that he has no time for Nacho but enough that he may not notice his son is more of a mess than usual. Of course, Nacho could just stay away altogether, but right now he's so mixed up he needs to be near the only person in the world who has always been there for him, even if it was touch and go for a while.

There's one thing that Nacho has forgotten; Manuel Varga has seen more than a few summers and older people can be both wily and wise. Manuel is both.

His intelligent brown eyes peer up at Nacho from out of the creased and wrinkled map that time has made of his face. A small frown appears and Nacho winces involuntarily, feeling as he always does like a wayward child afraid of parental disapproval. It's ridiculous to be so sensitive about Manuel's opinions, after all there is absolutely nothing about his current lifestyle that pleases his father and he doesn't even know about most of it. Yet here Nacho is, shoulders tucked down, submissive and apologetic, needing something he can't explain from a man who could not possibly understand.

Despite his best intentions, something of his desperation must show on his face because Manuel hurries through the closing down ritual and waves off the last employee in record time. He locks the big garage door and turns to face his son.

"Mijo. What is wrong?"

"Nothing Papa. I was passing, that's all." 

"Are you in trouble?"

They both know that by this Manuel means even worse trouble than normal, because technically Nacho has been in a shit storm of trouble since he turned fifteen and decided being on the wrong side of the law was more lucrative and more fun. He's survived so far because he's intelligent, organized and careful and to date he's managed to evade most of the pitfalls that trap people who cross the legally acceptable line, which is actually quite an incredible feat as working for the Cartel is about as far over that line as you can get.

"I'm okay."

Manuel's eyes narrow; he clearly does not believe a word of it.

"You want to eat? There's a new special at Rosa's."

Nacho nods, agrees he could eat and then silently curses himself for his weakness. The longer he stays in his father's company the more likely it is that Manuel will know how off balance he is. It's too late to decline now though as his father is stepping out through the side door, keys jangling. He follows, painfully aware that he would not decline anyway, pathetically grateful as he is that he's been invited. The truce between them is fragile and Nacho cannot forget how something in him broke when his father disowned him. If it hadn't been for Victor nearly killing him... 

"Ignacio?" 

"Sorry Papa. Rosa's?" 

Nacho ducks away from Manuel's enquiring gaze and into his car. They'll be heading in opposite directions after they eat so there's no point in sharing a vehicle.

A few minutes later they push through the doors into the brightly lit and noisy interior of the diner. Nacho heads straight for the booth at the back; it's relatively private and he can keep an eye on the door and the other customers, with a quick alternative exit through the kitchen if necessary.

They order and Nacho leans back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets although he guesses Manuel has already noted the state of his knuckles. Sure enough his father's gaze passes carefully over his face and confirms there are no visible injuries. The small pinch at the corner of his mouth confirms he's reached the correct conclusion and is both relieved and disappointed.

They talk for a while; orders are up and business is good in the upholstery trade, Manuel's neighbour is out of hospital and Nacho is taking care of his wounds and is even back to working out, although he has to be careful. He doesn't mention the adverse effects of shovels or stress. 

The food is good and they're part way through the meal before Manuel puts down his fork, takes a good slurp of coffee and turns his full attention onto his son. 

"Are you still working for them?" 

Nacho swallows heavily, grimaces. "I can't just walk away; it's gonna take a little time." He pokes at the remaining food listlessly with his fork and pushes the plate away, his appetite evaporated.

"Look at you!" says Manuel with some vigor. "You don't eat properly." He points a finger in the general direction of the dark shadows beneath Nacho's eyes. "You don't sleep well; you're not happy. You've got to get out. This is killing you, mijo."

"I'm okay, Papa, I promise..."

"No, you're not! Those Salamancas, they will be the death of you. They almost killed you, Ignacio!"

"No Papa! It wasn't...the Salamanca twins saved me; if it wasn't for Leonel and Marco I'd be dead now." Nacho finds he is leaning forward, his fists clenched on the tabletop. He forces his fingers straight, tries to impart with his gaze how earnest he is.

"The Salamancas are devils!" His father nearly spits the name at him.

"Marco saved my life!" Nacho finds he is shaking, unreasonably upset. "He gave me some of his own blood!" 

"It means nothing. The Salamancas are like rattlesnakes. They lie next to you in the night for your body heat and next morning, when the sun rises, when they have no further use for you, they strike."

Nacho can't keep the look off his face; it's so close to his fears. 

"If they kept you alive, it's because you're useful to them, for now." Manuel sighs, seems to shrink in upon himself. "Remember, mijo, I gave you more than a few drops of blood."

Then his father is on his feet, tucking money under his plate and his expression is frustrated and unhappy.

"Take care of yourself, Ignacio."

It's like a dismissal; perhaps it is one? Nacho is frozen in panic. His only reason for surviving is walking away, leaving him utterly alone. He forces himself to sit back and stir his coffee, although his hands are shaking so badly that the spoon clatters against the mug. He can feel himself starting to disintegrate emotionally, catches a glimpse of his father crossing the parking lot with the gait of an old man and is on his feet so quickly that coffee slops out of the mug onto the laminated surface. He throws down some money, probably far too much, and rushes out of the diner.

It's too late; he catches a glimpse of his father's face in the glow of the dashboard lights and then there's the pulse of brake lights at the exit and the sound of the engine as Manuel pulls away.

He could drive after him of course, but what good would it do? He's not sure why he came in the first place; there was never going to be a way to tell his father about Hector or Fring, Arturo, the Espanosa, about LJ, about Marco... They're not burdens for Manuel to carry; this is Nacho's fault and his own choices have brought him here to this moment. 

Nacho wraps his arms across his chest, trying to hold himself together. He can hear his breath rasping in and out but he can't get enough air as the dark shadows of his fears seem to rush at him from the corners of the parking lot. He wonders if it would be better for everyone if he just pulled his gun and blew out his brains? There just doesn't seem any point to it any more.

His cell phone stirs and pings in his pocket. He doesn't hear it at first but it nudges insistently at his leg until he shakes himself free from his despair enough to fumble for it and squint at the screen. It's Marco.


	7. Crash

So, Marco is in Albuquerque, or at least his text says that he is, although not in so many words of course. Nacho has no clue why Marco has come back, but thinks all this constant border crossing is pushing the Salamanca's luck. Then again, he has no idea if the Salamancas did actually cross the border when they left, or if they have some foolproof legal way of crossing; it's not like Nacho is privy to their secrets just because he's given Marco a blowjob.

As he's leaving the diner Nacho notices there's a van parked just outside the pool of illumation cast by the security light. It looks a familiar shape; he can't be sure of the color in the poor light but it sends a ripple of nerves through his belly, enough to make him take a few odd twists and turns on the way to the Salamanca's yard. When he's sure he's not being followed he turns into the yard and parks his car out of sight. The big pick-up is already by the building and the glimmer of light around the door tells him the lights are on inside.

Wary, Nacho checks his gun and makes his way to one side of the door. He taps, calls out and when he hears Marco's voice he enters cautiously, gun cocked and held alongside his right thigh, just in case. Marco is leaning against a counter on the opposite side of the room, arms folded. Three things strike Nacho immediately: Marco is wearing jeans and a shirt; Leonel is not there and Marco's face looks like he's been in a fight. The latter is not surprising apart from the fact that someone, somehow, managed to hit Marco because he has a cut lip and a bruised and puffy cheek.

"You alone?"

Marc's voice is hoarse and as he steps forwards Nacho can see the dark bruising on his throat and the way he favors his left leg. Confusingly this makes Nacho's stomach clench and his palms go all sweaty, the same way they did that time his dad got his hand caught in the big stitching machine. 

He wants to ask what happened but instead he just nods and tucks his gun back into his pants as Marco scoops a bag from under the counter. 

"New product to push," he says abruptly, pushing the bag in Nacho's direction. 

Nacho pulls back the zip; there are six packs full of white crystals and he raises an eyebrow.

"Meth?" 

Marco nods. "New cook. Quality is good so we want you to get some out on the streets." 

"Sure. I'll call the guys in first thing.". Nacho lifts the packets out, gestures at Marco's face. 

"That trouble gonna come here now?" 

"No." And that's it, just the implacable stare and set jaw. No way he's trusting Nacho with any information. 

Nacho grits his teeth and tries to let it go but, shit, the last thing he needs is some gang fight on his doorstep because the Salamancas have stolen someone's meth, or even worse their cook.

He opens the safe swiftly, dumps the packs inside with barely controlled anger and slams the door. He's so sick of having no control over anything. He feels like a character in some ridiculous computer game, with Fring sending him one way and the Salamancas pulling him right back, his Dad retreating because there's a limit to how much even he can stand, and now fucking Marco, who thinks he can just do...things with Nacho one day and then not even trust him enough to give him a decent answer the next. All the time Nacho is being dragged backwards and forwards between them all, in constant danger of being croaked by at least three parties, or just smashing himself to bits on a piece of scenery.

He turns on his heel, all set to storm straight out of the door, get himself away from everyone so he can punch something, scream his fury at the sky.

"Shit!"

Marco is right behind him; for a big man he can move like a shadow and he just sort of looms over Nacho, actually catches him by the arm when Nacho near as damn it falls right over him. They stand there for a couple of seconds, Marco's fingers digging into Nacho's biceps while Nacho's body suddenly remembers it likes the other man way too much.

"I'm gonna go now," he says, trying to play it cool although the statement sounds uncomfortably like a question.

Marco doesn't say anything but he moves closer; you couldn't slip a dollar bill between them now and Nacho's pulse is going crazy; he finds himself biting his lip, unable to tear his gaze away from the dark eyes staring down at him, their pupils so enlarged they are nearly entirely black. Every single molecule of his being just wants to throw itself at Marco, wants it so bad he's shaking and his dick is like iron in his pants. His hand reaches out, feels the soft material of Marco's t-shirt, the heat of his body firm beneath it. Marco licks his bottom lip, leans closer; Nacho's breath goes fast, shallow, his mouth opening a little in anticipation, stomach clenching. Then Marco stops; he pulls his head back and unfurls his fingers from Nacho's arm and just steps away.

Nacho freezes, his lips still stupidly parted and his body registering the loss of Marco's warmth, even as the burn from the grip of his fingers fades.

"Okay," says Marco and he shrugs, turns his back, starts doing up the zip on the empty bag.

Nacho's dick throbs urgently, his body still wanting what his mind knows has been withdrawn.

"Okay," he replies mindlessly and his voice is small and lost, his stomach turning sour as a dull flush of embarrassment sweeps over his face and neck.

"It sells well, you'll get more." Marco gives him a quick glance, his face once more the hard mask of an assassin. Then he's striding out of the door and there's the grumble of the pick-up.

Nacho takes a step backwards so he's flush against the chill metal of the safe. He feels dizzy, everything around him too cold, too empty. His father's words echo in his mind, "If they kept you alive, it's because you're useful to them". That makes him feel odd, bringing a tight pain to his stomach and chest because it's too much, this unexpected crushing misery on top of everything else. What the fuck is wrong with him? Maybe it's some sort of PTSD thing from being shot?

He wants to just run off and leave them all behind but he can't and instead finds himself mechanically locking up and heading home. He's not worried about leaving the meth in the safe. He changed the combination after Arturo was killed and there's no way anyone can break into it without blowing up half the building.

He makes it home, slugs down a glass of water and goes to stand in the shower, lets the warm water and the tangy shower gel wash away some of the tension.

Despite everything, his body still hasn't got the message and his groin is aching, so after a while he looks down; his dick is standing proud and flushed, soap suds washing slowly down its length. He takes it in his hand, hating himself, lets his mind take him back to that moment when Marco went on his knees and took him into his mouth. Nacho's fingers begin to slide on slick soap, his lips parting as he finds a rhythm, the pressure of his grip sending pulses of sensation to his balls. He moans, his thoughts full of the sight and sound of fucking Marco's mouth and he starts to rock into his own hand, the other braced against the wet tiles. The pace quickens, pleasure building as he tightens the muscles of his ass, pumping hard into his fist, squeezing the head of his cock with his fingers and thumb the way Marco's throat...uhh...it's almost painful he comes so hard; white streams hit the tiles, spill down his thighs to swirl in the water. His thumb teases the head, causes another spurt that makes his back arch so much his dick bumps the cold wall.

Then he's panting and shaking and holding himself up with both hands against the tiles as his dick drops heavy and dark against his thigh. The water cascades onto his head, runs into his eyes and away down his face, so he can pretend even to himself that he's not crying.

Later, he stumbles into the bedroom, wet and naked apart from a towel around his hips. He shuts the door behind him and leans up it, lets himself slide down onto his ass, wondering why he's still shaking. He wraps his arms around himself, squeezes tight, more terrified than ever that he's losing it.

Cont... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts?


	8. Danger

It's late when Nacho leaves the next morning, not that early starts are big in the drug world, it being more of a late finish kind of scene.

He's gritty-eyed and the strong, black coffee he sucked down doesn't seem to have done more than dry out his mouth. He opens the door and steps outside wearily into the hot air, slow and tired and barely functioning until he spots the red van parked on the corner. Nacho has never seen one like it there before. To his credit, he doesn't miss a beat, just keeps on going like he hasn't even seen it, although his heart begins to race and there's the sharp rush of adrenaline in his gut.

He looks around casually before he gets into his car but there's no-one that he can see, so he slides into the driver's seat and slips his gun out of the back of his pants and underneath his thigh instead for speed of access. 

Going to the yard and picking up the meth is out of the question, so he's no choice but to call Marco, even if he's the last person in the world Nacho wants to speak to, although Hector and Fring are breathing down Marco's neck in that particular race. The ring-tone sounds in his ear but there's no answer and Nacho doesn't want to sit around too long and raise suspicion, so he sends a quick text instead. It's short, in Spanish and to the point.

"Red van tailing me. Staying clear business." 

That should put Marco on high alert quick enough.

Nacho puts the car in Drive and takes off, nice and casual on the surface but his mind racing as he's absolutely no fucking clue where to go for the best. Sure enough, the van eases out into the traffic a few vehicles behind him and that does nothing good at all for his piece of mind. 

Staying somewhere where there are other people seems safer, although of course then there could be collateral damage if anything kicks off; collateral damage and its likely fall-out is not something Nacho needs with his less than perfect record and a safe full of crystal. 

He drives steadily and comes to the conclusion that it's probably not going to be an attempt to just croak him, because they've had more than one chance to do that already and haven't taken it. So that means it's an attempt to make off with Salamanca property or information gathering for some major future hit. He guesses the occupants of the van are either something to do with the Espanosas or with the meth now residing in the Salamanca's safe. He considers and discounts DEA; the whole operation is too sloppy and the vehicle just isn't right, but you never know for sure. 

Nacho keeps well away from anything Salamanca or to do with his father, waiting and hoping to hear back from Marco while drawing the van further away from home territory. It's nerve-wracking and all his senses are heightened, making him uncomfortably aware of little things like the tiny squeak of metal every time he turns right and how there's a build-up of sandy dust in the indentations where his windshield wipers are fixed.

He makes a few quick calls, gets some reliable hard men on the ground at the Salamanca's yard and hopes Marco got his message so there's no shit from the cartel about the lack of meth sales. There's still no answer, but the man could be back in Mexico by now and Nacho will have to deal with this problem locally because that's part of his unspoken job description.

With the yard protected and no-one else available as back-up, it's up to Nacho to try and find out who these people are and with that in mind he pulls into the next mall parking lot.

The van rushes in after him and a tall man gets out, leaving the driver in the van. Nacho chooses this moment to exit his car, casually pretending to be on his cell. He gets a good look at the man, who is big, Hispanic and unfamiliar. 

Nacho weaves rapidly through the cars, ducks behind a van, switches direction and takes advantage of the lack of people in that long-stay area of parking to traverse a line of cars while bent over double to stay out of sight.

When he finally looks cautiously around the side of an RV, the tall guy is some distance away and heading for the mall entrance. Even from a distance he looks pissed.

Nacho is now almost alongside the red van and after checking quickly that no-one is around he crosses the gap with a few quick strides, gets the door open and his gun in the driver's side.

"You move, you die," he advises him. 

The driver is smaller than his companion, nervous and quite young. Nacho doesn't waste any time.

"Who are you working for, you miserable piece of shit?" 

He slides the razor sharp tip of his knife alongside the man's groin to reinforce his point, presses in just enough to cause a little bright red blood to blossom on the guy's jeans. From his expression he's about to shit himself or cry; Nacho hopes the latter.

"I can't," he whispers. 

"Try again." Nacho applies enough pressure that the man yelps and the stain spreads suddenly wider. 

"Espanosas!"

"Cut the cute attitude, smartass. They're dead." 

"No man, I ain't shittin' you! They got family. They ain't too happy!" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Nacho sees the tall man jogging back through the lines of vehicles at the same time as hope flares on the driver's face.

"Don't move," he snarls, feeling the jolt of adrenaline hit his kidneys. He jabs the gun in a little harder and turns his head slightly just in time to see the tall man stop abruptly and then disappear from view. His mind is still trying to process this when the unmistakable figure of Marco stands up from the same location and heads in his direction.

He stalks up to the other side of the van and opens the door, scowling across at Nacho.

"Who are they?"

"He says family of the Espanosas."

Marco stares at the driver in disgust and then climbs in next to him. If the man was terrified before, his fear is off the scale when Marco takes hold of his collar and tugs him close.

"What do family of the Espanosas think they can do to the Salamancas?" The sneer in his voice matches the curl of his lip.

The youngster shudders, shakes his head hopelessly. Nacho almost feels sorry for him. 

Marco sighs, flicks a blade out of his sleeve and takes off half the man's ear, ramming a pice of cloth in his mouth at the same time to muffle his scream.

"You go back. You tell the Espanosas they stay away. They come here, the Salamancas will kill them."

He gets out of the van, leaving the driver sobbing and holding the side of his head. Seconds later the back doors open and something heavy is thrown inside before they slam shut again.

"Get the fuck outta here." Nacho snaps, withdrawing from the van doorway. The driver doesn't hang around, taking off with a squeal of rubber and his door still open.

"Yard," grunts Marco. His gaze meets Nacho's and there's the smoulder of pure rage in his eyes. Nacho isn't sure of the reason but he's not about to argue.

.

It's quiet back at the yard and no one has seen anything suspicious, so Nacho sorts out the distribution of coke and crystal and arranges for an around-the-clock guard on the premises. 

When everything is finally done he sits back, feeling a bit deflated, and raises his eyes to find Marco is still staring at him with the same brooding expression he's had on his face since they left the parking lot. It irritates Nacho, makes him feel as though he's in the wrong somehow, when all he's done is do his job. He raises an eyebrow at Marco, managing to imply sarcasm and query at the same time. In response, Marco straightens up from his casual lean against the safe and something dangerous flashes across his expression.

Nacho finds himself on his feet, takes in the white knuckles on Marco's hands and braces himself for whatever is coming, because he's not backing down and Marco can just fuck off if he thinks Nacho will. 

Marco gets up real close and personal, his greater height making Nacho raise his chin to keep eye contact. Then suddenly the bigger man's hand snakes out and grasps Nacho around the back of his neck. His fingers grip hard and Nacho has a fleeting impression he is about to be shaken like a recalcitrant puppy. Instead Marco actually growls at him and yanks him forwards and kisses him hard on the mouth.

For about a second Nacho resists and then his blood turns to liquid fire and his hands are grasping at Marco's ribs and he's kissing him back. There's nothing gentle about it; it's all teeth and crushed lips and harsh breaths and Nacho gets hard so fast it hurts. 

Then Marco tightens the grip on the back of his neck and pulls him away and Nacho just knows he makes a needy sound of protest. He should be embarrassed, but he's not and he doesn't resist when Marco takes hold of his shoulders and propels him backwards until his thighs hit the sorting table.

Their mouths meet again and Nacho can feel the anger in the other man in the way his teeth are hard against Nacho's lips and the way his bodyweight forces Nacho back and down until his ass is on the table. The zip of his jeans is wrenched down and long fingers that are almost cruel massage his balls, free his cock from his pants and pull hard and fast along its length. Nacho arches up against the body over him and the hand abandons its task as Marco parts Nacho's thighs, half lying between them, his weight solid as he opens his pants and thrusts his hard cock against Nacho's groin.

A couple of minutes of this and Nacho's breaths are almost sobs; he's so desperate for release. Marco straightens abruptly, pulling Nacho up with him and turning him around. A heavy hand between his shoulder blades pushes him forwards and his elbows slam into the shiny table top as his jeans are dragged down.

The air is cool on his ass before warm fingers part his arse cheeks; there's a brief feeling of moisture by his entrance and then Marco's solid, heavy cock pushes against him, slowly breaches the entrance and begins to push inexorably inside. It hurts, a lot, and a part of Nacho wants to pull away before he's torn in two, but Marco's hands have a firm grip on his hips and despite the discomfort, he wants Marco like a drug, any way he can have him. 

The hard flesh inside him keeps pushing in, burning, stretching, until it's seated so deep that Nacho goes cold and shivery and can distinctly feel balls against his ass. Marco begins to move his hips, pulling nearly out until his cock passes some inner ring of muscle that sets off excruciating ripples of pain, then fucking into him slowly, long movements that cause Nacho's cock to grind against the table.

Nacho hangs onto the table edge with one hand, jams his other forearm across his mouth so he can bite that and muffle any sound he might make. He wonders if there's something wrong with him; isn't this meant to be enjoyable? He's starting to feel nauseated and dizzy when Marco leans further over his back and drives in at a different angle. The thick head of his cock rides over Nacho's prostrate and he can't contain his sharp gasp.

Marco's long fingers fasten on one shoulder, his other hand wrapped around Nacho's hipbone. His thrusts speed up, deep and hard, each time sending a jolt of sensation through Nacho's prostrate until his breath catches, nausea disappearing in a wave of lust as he responds and grinds back into the rut of Marco's cock. His own cock is weeping copiously and slides rhythmically in the pre-come on the table surface. 

"Marco," he says helplessly and then he's coming, feels himself spasm around Marco's cock as his load spurts out against his belly. Marco gasps, wrenches him back viciously and jerks and shudders against him, spilling a warmth deep inside.

Nacho collapses, the side of his face flat against the table until Marco stops his final thrusts and pulls out. Spunk gushes out, hot and fast down Nacho's thighs and for a moment he can't move.

When he hears the rustle of material and the sound of a zip behind him, Nacho forces himself up with trembling arms and pulls up his pants, does himself up before he raises his head and looks at the other man. 

Marco still looks livid, if anything more furious than before and for a moment Nacho feels sure he's about to be punched. He doesn't cringe, because deep down he feels that's all he's worth really and something of that must show on his face because Marco's expression alters fractionally, the taut skin around his eyes softening.

Then Nacho is reaching out, unable to stop himself, the tips of his fingers skating over the multi-hued bruises on the other man's neck and ghosting across the split lip that's been re-opened with the force of their mouths.

Marco just stares at him and his face gets that lost look again, just like it did when he was picking up Nacho's keys from the dust. Nacho's hand moves on up of its own volition, his thumb strokes the big cheek bone and his other hand slips under Marco's t-shirt and caresses his ribs. The Salamanca's eyes go wide and dark and his white teeth sink into his lip a fraction too late to hide the tremble.

They stay there for a few seconds, confused about what is happening, until they're broken apart by a sharp rap on the door. It's LJ, subdued and subservient as he reports his distributors have sold out. Nacho has enough product on hand to re-supply him and he lets LJ know he's pleased with an approving slap on the shoulder. 

"There's someplace I have to be," says Marco. "They know where you live; you stay at the house."

"I'll get beer." It's a question and they both know it and Marco nods, his face impassive for LJ's scrutiny but his eyes soft.

A few minutes later, Nacho locks up and leaves. He grabs some beers from the store and throws in a pizza too. He's tired and confused, his ass is sore and damp and his back is starting to ache in a way he's never felt before. He feels cold and shaky again and guesses it's something to do with the fact his body has never been fucked that way, that and the fact his emotions are all over the place.

To his relief, there are no red vans about but he keeps an eye on the mirror anyway. In the end he needn't have bothered, because when he's passing the run-down industrial units north of town it's a silver SUV that hurtles out of a side road and smashes his car right across the blacktop and into an abandoned lot. Somewhere about the time the car collides with a concrete block wall, Nacho's head cracks into the glass and pillar of the side window. There's an explosion of light and agony in the side of his head and then it's just dark. 

Cont...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any kudos and comments are gratefully received ;-)


	9. Out of his head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay...real life sucks.

There's a musty, dusty, dirty smell crawling up his nostrils, it's profoundly dark and the floor is moving violently. It takes Nacho a few seconds, because it's hard to breathe and his head hurts that goddamned much, then he realizes he's in the trunk of someone's car...a big, old car by the raw stink of full-lead gasoline exhaust gas and the way he's getting thrown around the spacious interior. 

A loose piece of metal slides past his face; he guesses it's probably a wrench or something similar by the sound it makes as it collides with the side of the vehicle. There's other debris rolling around too: old, pungent coffee cups; a rancid burger wrapper; a sour towel. It makes him feel nauseated and he swallows desperately; the last thing he needs now is to vomit.

It's difficult with the way he's being thrown around, but Nacho manages to locate the plastic covers over the rear light fittings. For some reason his hands are loose - maybe they think he's dead? If so, it's a mistake that he needs to use to his advantage.

It's incredibly awkward to wriggle around; they must be on some rough, dirt road, but the fact this means they're probably nearing their destination and a shallow grave for Nacho gives him a much needed adrenaline boost.

Eventually he gets his shoulders braced against the back of the rear seat and slams his boots at the lights in an irregular rhythm until the plastic covers break away. An eerie red glow fills the interior but the speed doesn't decrease, so Nacho figures whoever is in the front hasn't heard him, which isn't too surprising given the level of the music and the thump of abused springs and panels.

Another couple of determined kicks and one rear light is smashed. Cold desert air and a lot of dust pour in through the gap. Nacho pulls his t-shirt up over his nose and squirms around until he can get a view. It's pitch-black out there, apart from a constantly changing small patch of dirt road visible in the dim glow from the remaining rear light. The bad news is this means they're already out on a desert road and their destination and Nacho's shallow grave are probably quite close. He doesn't have much time and it's a struggle to think through the pounding in his head. His fingers search the gritty carpet and rusted metal; to his disappointment the trunk is securely locked although at least he finds the wrench and wraps his fingers around it like a lifeline. As soon as that trunk opens, he's going to come out fighting.

Seconds later the brakes are applied sharply; Nacho tries to brace himself but slides forwards helplessly. His injured head collides with something hard and the searing pain of the impact knocks him right out of his own space, leaves him somewhere silent and still and cold. 

Eventually a bright light shines in his face and someone gives him a poke in the shoulder. He can't move or make a sound and it occurs to him that this is probably it. It's ironic it's going to happen in the desert after all.

He listens without much interest when a young-sounding voice speaks somewhere over his head. 

"Yeah, I got it," says the voice, shaky and unsure. A trembling hand takes hold of Nacho's shoulder and gives him a shake but he's too out of it to respond.

"I dunno, man. Yeah he's dead. Yeah, yeah...I'm sure." 

And then Nacho is dragged unceremoniously up and over the trunk lip, ribs and thighs and knees scraping painfully. He drops like a sack onto the track, catching a blurry glimpse of a familiar face with the white patch of a dressing over one ear - it's the kid from the van he thinks - then he's being dragged through the dirt. There's sand and dust in his mouth before he's rolling, falling into a gully, scraggy undergrowth tearing at his clothes and skin.

To his surprise there's the sound of a car door slamming and then the engine guns and roars away. 

For a long time Nacho just lies and watches the ice chips of the stars wheel overhead. They're beautiful, he thinks, and he's kind of glad they might be the last thing he sees. Funnily enough that's the thought that shocks him back into himself, makes him think about the lost look on Marco's face and the fact he wants to see more of what lies behind the customary impassive mask. Besides, he doesn't want to just disappear, lost in some ditch; that's not fair on Manuel. 

After a struggle he makes it to his hands and knees. The ground is pitching up and down as though he's still in that foul trunk, but at least the air is cleaner.

He crawls slowly up towards the track, slipping and sliding in the loose dust and wishing his boots weren't so pointed because the toes keep getting caught on roots and stones.

"Way to go, man," he mutters bitterly as his right foot snags again. It's just his luck - survive the Espanosas' hit, but die because of a fucking boot fashion. Irritation at the whole situation gives him the strength to free himself and propels him up the last few feet so he can collapse onto the track.

He gets his breathing back under control and gives himself a quick check: arms and legs, working; possibly a cracked rib or two; cut lip; back ache, but that is self-inflicted or at least Marco-inflicted; head - splitting, definitely something wrong in that department, although he can see as well as expected by starlight. Could be worse. 

Heartened, he pushes himself carefully to his feet.

It's worse. 

By the time he stops vomiting and makes it back onto his feet, those beautiful stars have wheeled a little further across the abyss and his eyesight seems to have deteriorated, although that could just be the remains of the reflexive tears from the nausea or the accumulation of dried blood on his face. 

There's not a light in sight, no sound of traffic, nothing but a dim landscape populated with eerie, dark shapes. Nacho forces himself to concentrate and recalls he was pulled out of the trunk, facing back down the route they'd travelled, then dragged to the gully on his left. That means if he puts the gully behind him and turns left, he's heading home. So that's what he does, heading towards the stain of light pollution on the horizon.

It's bitterly cold, completely the opposite of the last time he was trying not to die in the desert. He zips his jacket and clenches his teeth so they don't chatter and make his skull explode. He wonders vaguely at what precise point in his life did he take the definitive wrong turn that led to this moment? 

The dark track seems endless and Nacho stumbles forwards, intending to count his steps but realizing it's actually the pounding of his head setting the rhythm of the passage of time.

After a while he stops thinking about how far   
he's come, how far he has to go. He just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, which is pretty much what he's been doing his entire life; one step at a time and hope that one day you end up somewhere you want to be.

At first he walks to get help; later he staggers towards the comforting thought of his papa, towards the enigma that is Marco. His father won't be looking for him because he doesn't know anything about this whole shitstorm, but Marco will be looking. Nacho's relying on that. Marco is searching for him, and being Marco, sooner or later he's going to come barrelling over that horizon in a cloud of dust and maybe, just maybe, his mask will crack enough to let Nacho know if he means something more to him than a quick fuck.

Strangely enough, a long time after Nacho's boots hit the hard surface of the black top, and a very long time since he started walking, it's Leonel who pulls up next to him in a white SUV that's expensive enough for the rising sun to show the high gloss of chrome and paint work through the layers of dust.

Leonel waits a minute and then seems to realize that Nacho is too far out of it to do anything more than stand and stare stupidly at his own reflection in the dark glass of the side window. He disembarks and strides around the front of the vehicle in a laconic manner, opens the door and kind of muscles Nacho inside.

"Who did this?" he asks, although he must already have a good idea. 

"Espanosas," replies Nacho, his voice coming out all gruff and his hands starting to shake under Leonel's dark stare. 

Leonel thrusts a bottle of water at him and slams the door, speaking briefly into his cell on the way back to the driver's seat. 

"They think I'm dead," says Nacho, because for some reason this seems important. Leonel doesn't comment, so Nacho feels obliged to add that he isn't dead, which earns him a hard look. He rambles on a bit more about the dirty trunk and stars and where the hell is Marco until Leonel stamps on the brake, pulls over and unceremoniously shines a flashlight in his eyes.

Nacho nearly passes out but can't because Leonel has his jaw in a cruel grip. 

"Don't go to sleep," he says. "You got a concussion."

No shit, thinks Nacho, but he blinks and grunts his agreement and sits in silence until they pull up on a deserted warehouse site.

Seconds later Marco is opening the passenger door. His face is rigid with tension and he looks exhausted, the bruises on his neck now even more livid than before. 

"Get out."

Nacho obliges, his heart thumping painfully because he wants Marco to... to something... but Marco just stares at him until Nacho starts to list to one side and then, at last, Marco's mask does crack. His hand shoots out and he catches Nacho under the elbow, that lost look appearing on his face again as the other hand gently, so gently caresses the side of Nacho's face. 

Then, right in front of Leonel, in the middle of that empty yard, Marco leans down and kisses Nacho. First a soft kiss to his forehead and then a lingering brush of cool lips over his own.

Leonel says something. Nacho doesn't catch the words because his ears are ringing, but he hears amusement overlaid with warning and something that sounds suspiciously like fear. Even as the kiss ends and he lets his pounding head rest against Marco's warm shoulder, he understands how dangerous it is for someone in Marco's line of work to get attached. 

It isn't just Nacho who's walking on dangerous ground. 

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

  
The twins decide it’s a good idea if Nacho stays dead for a few days as far as anyone else is concerned. After a brief discussion they pick a location and take Nacho to a remote little house, its bone-dry boards almost invisible against the parched landscape surrounding it. There's a well with a supply of brackish water, a generator with a supply of fuel and a good stock of canned and packaged food. Nacho guesses the Salamancas have little bolt-holes like this littered all over New Mexico and probably a few other places too.

Leonel takes a quick look around and seems to find everything he expects to find. He pokes a simple wooden chair with his boot toe, the expensive finish and skull toe cap incongruous against the unvarnished and scratched chair leg, then he frowns at Nacho, says something quietly to Marco and fucks off.

Nacho is dirty, exhausted and in pain so he doesn't particularly care where Leonel is going, although he's wishing they were somewhere with a power shower and a comfortable mattress. It seems neither is available, so he staggers manfully over towards some bottles of water on the table, takes a drink, then wanders outside into the harsh sunlight, trying to warm the chill out of his bones.

Marco follows him as he heads aimlessly towards the broken rail fence a few feet from the shack, grasping at his arm from time to time when Nacho reels off course. Nacho only puts up with this because it's Marco, who is big enough to have his own way and is already aware that Nacho’s street cred is at an all-time low.

"Inside," Marco demands in Spanish, after they've stared at the bleak landscape for a while. The abrupt command sounds softer in that tongue and Nacho finds that he dares to disagree, even though a small voice in his mind tells him he must have a death wish to disagree with a Salamanca. 

"It’s warmer out here, man," he replies, his own voice sounding tinny and far away to his ears.

He’s wondering where the hell they are? There's enough furniture in the shack, even a TV, to make it a basic home. No occupants though, and no real indication there have been any recently. Were there ever any? Did they leave, or did the Salamancas remove them in some way?

"Ignacio." Marco's voice is sombre and deep beside him and Nacho startles, having temporarily forgotten that he was there. He doesn't feel right at all and the light is way too bright, making him feel as though someone is viciously driving metal splinters through his eyes and into his brain.

"Ignacio. Inside. Now."

It’s too much effort to argue after all, so Nacho lets himself lean into Marco's strong frame and heads back towards the shack. He's really cold and really dizzy and somewhere along the way the day fades out for a while until he finds himself lying on the cot with Marco's finger tapping insistently against his cheekbone.

"Look at me," he demands and Nacho obliges. It's no hardship to look at Marco, although he does look a little blurry around the edges. He blinks, wanting only to close his eyes and rest.

"Don't sleep," snaps Marco sharply.

It's not so much the tone but the concern in his dark eyes that forces Nacho fully awake. He focuses on Marco's face and tries to sort out his muddled thoughts. He's feeling a bit confused, the sequence of events leading up to this moment oddly fractured; it seems as though when he tries to pin a memory down it slithers away fast as a snake into a tangled undergrowth of jumbled mental images. One thought remains foremost in his mind though and he figures now is as good a time as any to address it. It's not like they have anything better to do.

"Marco," he says quietly.

Marco turns back to him, impassive now, but Nacho soldiers on regardless.

"After the hit, they didn't call you, so you must've thought I was dead." He gestures vaguely through the window at the desiccated landscape. "Why'd you waste time looking for me, man?"

Marco watches the movement of Nacho's hand through the dusty sunlight, the way it settles back onto his stomach. He keeps his dark gaze fixed on the tanned fingers and his own fingers twitch before he clenches them into a loose fist.

"Leonel found you." It’s a deliberate evasion and Nacho is having none of it.

"So why'd you look?" he persists.

Marco scowls viciously, probably thinking this is the reason he doesn't get drawn into conversation. "We expected to find a corpse," he grunts harshly but he’s a little too slow shutting down the expression in his eyes.

"Go figure," Nacho smiles weakly. "I guess you really wanted that beer, huh."

He's not really expecting an answer and sure enough Marco doesn’t give him one. Instead he raises his eyes to meet Nacho's golden stare. His face is completely blank now, but his fingers tremble just a little as they unfurl and trail briefly across Nacho's wrist before he moves away.

.

Sometime later, Marco wakes him from a light doze and asks him a few simple questions that are clearly to check Nacho is still operational mentally despite his head injury. This is a major effort for them both as Nacho doesn't want to leave his comfy semi-conscious state and Marco is forced to string several sentences together in succession. It leaves them both feeling edgy and when the questions dry up Nacho is wide awake so he levers himself upright, flexes his muscles experimentally and finds he is sore and stiff all over. He feels gross, his skin taut with desert grit and sweat and dried blood. 

"I'm gonna wash up."

Marco dumps a bottle of water and some meds on the bed and raises an eyebrow. He’s clearly finished with the whole talking thing for the foreseeable future.

Nacho drinks and swallows a few pills, then makes his unsteady way to a small area partially screened by a ripped cloth. Behind the cloth there's a little wooden table, a tin basin, a cracked and dry-looking bar of soap and a pail of water. Primitive, but Nacho is grateful anyway and slowly eases himself out of his clothing until he is naked to the waist. It takes more effort than he anticipates but the water, although room temperature, is refreshing and so he soaps up and sluices it gratefully over the kaleidoscope of bruises on his torso. He doesn't bother to dry himself, standing as he is in a hot strip of sunlight beating through the small window, but he strips down his lower half and washes that too.

He's trying to drag his jeans back up over wet legs when Marco makes an appearance. He looks unabashedly up and down Nacho's largely naked body, scowls at the bruises and cuts and is conveniently on hand when the combination of sticking jeans and a slowly spinning room cause Nacho to sway alarmingly.

His hands catch Nacho's upper arms and it's as though his fingertips are made of solidified electricity, the way Nacho's skin shudders and the fine hairs rise on his arms. He's instantly, painfully aware of Marco's body heat, the smell of expensive cologne on sun-warmed skin, the pulse throbbing in his brown throat. Even now, battered and dizzy, he wants the man, with a fierce need he's never felt for anyone before.

Marco pulls him a little closer, runs a careful hand over his flank, slides it round to glide over the lean muscles of Nacho's back and settle on the curve of his ass.

"You must rest," he mutters, not sounding convinced or convincing.

At least part of Nacho's body thinks this is a very bad idea. He quirks an eyebrow and gives Marco a slow and cheeky smile, then tilts his head back carefully and nips the soft skin of Marco's throat. The action sends a jolt of pain through his skull, but it's worth it as the smell of warm skin fills his nostrils and the texture and taste tease at his senses as he nips and licks his way along the stubbled jaw. 

Marco shivers, his grip tightening as Nacho slowly pops the buttons on the grey silk shirt and tugs it free so he can slide a hand under the white vest and across the ripple of Marco's abdomen. The skin is warm and soft, the perfect counterpoint to the hard muscle and jutting bone beneath. 

Marco's hands caress his back, fingers kneading his buttocks and Nacho presses forwards, letting Marco feel how aroused he is. 

The big man needs no further encouragement. He kisses Nacho slowly, tongue licking deep into his mouth, then walks him backwards, jeans tangling around his feet, until the cot catches him behind the knees. Nacho sits, involuntarily but happy with the arrangement. He kicks the jeans away and watches as Marco toes off his own boots and rids himself of his clothing in short order. His eyes narrow, bottom lip positively pouty as he scans the map of Nacho's bruised body, then he lays a hand flat on Nacho's chest and gently pushes him back onto his elbows. His heavy cock brushes over Nacho's thigh, leaving a cool, wet smear, then Marco drops to his knees and swallows down Nacho's cock without once breaking eye contact. 

"Madre de dios!" Nacho moans, legs falling open as the hot muscle of Marco's tongue curls around his testicles and massages the root of his cock as firm, soft lips work his length. It sounds wet, sloppy, obscene and he keeps his gaze locked with Marco's intense stare and pushes into the warmth as the other man sets up a slow rhythm, sucking and licking until Nacho is nearly in tears. He pulls off then and lifts Nacho's heels onto the edge of the cot, pushes his thighs apart and drives his tongue against Nacho's entrance. 

Nacho hears himself babble something that is incoherent even inside his own head and is repaid by the tongue breaching his ring of muscle and thrusting inside. His cock throbs and weeps as he squirms and pants, torn between a growing need and the sharp pain of his ribs and bruised body in this relatively constricted position. 

Just before he explodes, Marco pulls away, his big hands rolling Nacho onto his stomach and pulling him up onto his knees. Nacho spreads himself wide, unable to think about anything except the desperate need to have Marco inside him, to be as close as its humanly possible to be. 

The warm pads of Marco's fingers trail down his spine and he arches under them like a wanton cat. Large thumbs ease his butt cheeks apart and then there's the unmistakable feel of lubricant between his cheeks, and where in hell did Marco get that? 

Then there's pressure and pain as Marco pushes slowly inside, his palms careful on Nacho's bones as though he's scared he might break. Nacho really needs to prove he's a tough guy once this is done, but shit, right now he's putty in the Salamanca's hands. To prove a point he waits until Marco is seated and moving slowly in and out, then he drives himself backwards, gives his hips a twist as he does. It hurts everywhere but he figures that's how it is when you're fucking with the cartel, pleasure and pain all wrapped up in one savage package. 

Marco grunts behind him, startled and sounding oddly concerned until Nacho clenches viciously and repeats the movement. Then his fingers tighten and he grinds forwards, ramming into Nacho's prostrate and making him cry out. They battle it out until all thoughts have gone and there's just the sound of their breath and the slap of flesh as they fuck. 

Marco comes first, shuddering through it and bringing Nacho to spine wrenching orgasm with his final thrusts. Surprisingly, he stays inside him, hands firm on Nacho's hip bones as he pulls him down to spoon. They lie there, catching their breath while Marco kisses his head, the back of his neck, stroking patterns over his bruised ribs until the kisses become little nips and Nacho can feel him swelling up again inside. They move together then, slow and deep, Nacho's hand stroking his own cock and Marco's arm wrapped around his chest until it feels like they're one person instead of two. When Nacho finally comes, hot and jerky over his hand, Marco bites down on his neck and empties inside him. His breath goes all ragged in Nacho's ear and Nacho finds he has tears running down his cheeks and something more than Marco's arm squeezing his chest.

Three days they spend in the little shack. They eat a little, drink a lot and doze, but for most of the time they fuck, until it's not really just fucking any more.

Nacho isn't quite sure when it happens - perhaps it's when he's riding Marco's lap on the old couch, grinding down with every muscle taut and Marco's mouth open and his eyes wide, or maybe when Marco bends him over the little wooden table and pushes into him, both of them all wet and soapy and horny as hell? Perhaps it's when he lets Marco deep-throat him, his fingers tight on Nacho's shaved head, or when Marco pulls him onto his chest and tugs him off with his fingers deep in Nacho's ass, or maybe it's when Marco finally smiles at him with his perfect white teeth and his face softens to something so hot that Nacho's breath catches? Maybe it's when they spend a whole afternoon kissing and stroking and learning every inch of each others body, but whenever it is, it stops being a fuck and becomes something else.

And that's really dangerous ground. 

Then Leonel comes back.

The situation has been resolved. By this he means everyone involved is dead and instead the twins have a new problem South of the border who goes by the name of Eduardo. Leonel says the name just once and all the lightness goes out of Marco, just like that.

"We go," he tells Nacho and Nacho nods, numb with the dread of not knowing when or if he will see him again. Their fingers tangle briefly and then Marco is moving away. He looks back, just once, already impassive behind his shades and Nacho stands square, arms folded, jaw firm and trying not to scream. 

They leave him the fancy white SUV and he goes back to town and gets on with running the business. None too soon either; Molina obviously has plans to move up in the organisation. Nacho keeps a close eye on him and soon reasserts his dominance as the man in charge. 

Weeks pass, then months. Nacho buys some flashy new wheels to replace his wrecked car, moves into a big house and installs the expected luxury items, including a couple of meth-head girls who basically live off him for free in exchange for spreading their legs when he needs release. He tries not to think of Marco, especially when he's fucking the girls, but most days he fails miserably. 

He reports to Fring when he has to, dutifully visits Hector and runs the crews with ruthless efficiency. 

On the surface everything seems to be going well. Right up until the day Lalo arrives. 

Tbc... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts?  
> Thanks for reading 😉

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all of you who read, leave kudos and positive comments. You really make my day and you are the only reason I post what I write.
> 
> I do not own any of the characters, full credit to the original creators. These stories are for your entertainment and mine. No profit intended or desired.


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